


make it through

by wellthatdepends



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Beth Lives, F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dear diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatdepends/pseuds/wellthatdepends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she's just lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make it through

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Rilo Kiley's Better Son/Daughter. I recommend you listen to it or any Rilo Kiley song as they were on heavy rotation when I wrote this.

 

 

 

 

At night she dreams of walls closing in on her.

The trunk of the car, the confines of the hospital. The 12-foot high walls that loom behind their front door.

She dreams of things that exist in her reality, past and present, of inanimate objects that hold her prisoner.

When she wakes, it’s to the early rise of the sun; it’s to Maggie, shaking her awake with tears in her eyes. When she wakes, she is shivering in her grass stained nightgown, clutching her knife.

When she wakes she’s still  _trapped_.

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_If a girl falls in the forest and no one is around to hear her, does she make a sound? Does she even fall? Does it matter if she gets up? Does she matter at all?_

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not that she doesn’t like the new people. She just doesn’t  _know_  them.

They are murderers and liars and fools and maybe they are good people, sure, but she’s struggling to see that, even when Maggie murmurs to her their origin story while she tries to lull her to sleep. She knows that Maggie doesn’t differentiate between good people and bad people, not anymore. There are just  _her_  people, everything else is white noise.

Some days, they treat her like she never died, like they never carried her out of that hospital with a bullet in her skull. She appreciates it, but at the same time wishes they would acknowledge the fact. She’s not that girl from the prison, hasn’t been that girl since the day she saw her daddy die.

Other days, they treat her like glass. Like she’s cracked, like she could shatter at any moment.

Except for Daryl.

He treats her like she’s a ghost.

 

She’s not sure which is worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_I still can’t hold Judith without_

_f_

_a_

_l_

_l_

_i_

_n_

_g_

 

_apart._

 

 

 

 

 

She spends her days watching old episodes of a Chinese dating show and she wonders, not for the first time, in not even the first house, what kind of people lived here before. Tara calls them ‘hipsters’ and Abraham complains about the movie selection and Beth kind of marvels at the fact that they have settled in to the point that they can criticise and mock what they have.

It’s been three weeks of recuperation, and she’s been given the all clear, but she hasn’t told her sister. Keeps playing it vague, a few more days, then a couple more. It’s not fear, and it’s not laziness.

It’s the knowledge that once she’s deemed fit for work, they’ll assign her to look after the children. Rick’s all but told her so, singing her praises to Deanna and anyone that was around to hear about the miracle of ‘dead girl Beth’.

The thing is though, she just  _can’t_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_I don’t see how this is helping. I think you are making everything worse._

Maggie doesn’t let her camp out in the yard, doesn’t like people talking about her, or eyeing her cautiously in the street. It’s too much, and sometimes she feels like the only person she can stand to be around is Sasha, who is clearly fighting her own demons and barely spares her a second glance.

“Where are you going to live them?” Maggie’s eyes narrow, twitching. 

Beth shrugs. “Somewhere else.”

Morgan lives with Rick, and when Glenn tells her, over dinner, that they have room for her, she sets her mouth in a firm line and shakes her head.

“I want to live with people who don’t know me.” 

Silence falls over the whole table. Rosita may have mumbled  _well then_  under her breath, but her own head is still pounding with the truth and Maggie’s looks like it might explode.

“Fine. Do what you want, Beth.”

Fine. She will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Do I just place an ad on some community notice board? 19-year-old girl with minor brain damage seeks housemates. Must be tidy and deep sleepers as she will likely wake up screaming._

_This is stupid._

“Found you a place.”

In the rare occasions that Daryl does speak to her, it’s in single syllables, almost sounding forced. There was a moment when they were first reunited, when he held her and sobbed into her stomach and begged her for forgiveness, but since then, he avoids her like the plague.

“Yeah?”

“Come on,” he motions for her to follow him, leading her to an identical two-storey house, about a block away. He knocks twice, steps back and rests against the porch railing, lighting up a cigarette and inhaling deeply before the door swings open.

“Hey, Daryl,” the man greets him with a friendly smile, “you looking for Aaron.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, “wanted to introduce you to Beth.”

The man raises his eyebrow at her, giving her a brief once over. 

“I’m Eric, come on in,” he steps aside, “and Daryl? Put that out before you come into my house.”

She takes a couple of tentative steps forward into the foyer. It’s just like their house, in terms of layout, but these people have been here long enough to add their own personal touches. There’s a case full of books, various odds and ends, and a guitar in the corner.

“You play?” she asks, gesturing at the instrument.

“Aaron keeps saying he’s going to learn,” the man rolls his eyes, “so far all it’s done is gather dust.”

“Beth sings,” Daryl mutters, standing a bit too close behind her, “real good, too.”

“Aaron might not look it, but he’s a walking stereotype,” Eric shakes his head, “loves show tunes and 80’s glam pop.” 

“Aaron is?” her question trails off, and Eric flashes her a reassuring smile.

“My boyfriend.”

Oh.  _Oh_.

“Oh,” she nods slowly, “cool.”

“Daryl says you’re looking for a place?”

“Yeah,” Beth nods, “I’m really quiet, and tidy, and can cook-”

“Say no more,” Eric interrupts, “Daryl’s vouched for you. Any friend of his is a friend of ours.”

Beth catches Daryl’s eye and he smirks and there’s this little moment of clarity, shooting off in her mind like a firecracker. Time moves forward and people move forward and staying static never helped anyone.

And perhaps she is doing the right thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Eric and Aaron have spaghetti Tuesdays and Daryl is there, 7pm on the dot, because we have time now, and days, and that’s kind of overwhelming in its own way._

_I have my own room and my own bathroom and if I fall asleep in the garden, Aaron will put a blanket over me and let me be. When I have headaches, Eric makes me this ginger tea and maybe it’s in my mind, but it works._

_That being said, there are a lot of things that live solely in my mind these days. What’s one more?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eric gets her a job in inventory. She’s not sure that’s how it works around here, but Eric simply shrugs. Tells her that sometimes it’s better to act first and ask for forgiveness later.

“I think Maggie is still trying to forgive me,” Beth notes, as they count cans of vegetables, checking expiry dates.

“What for?” 

“Getting myself shot,” Beth shrugs, “being stupid. Maybe Daryl, too.”

“Don’t know about your sister,” Eric hums, “but Daryl looks at you like hung the moon and the stars _and_ invented motorcycles and cigarettes.”

Beth giggles.

“That’s quite a list of accomplishments.”

“You survived a bullet to the head,” Eric smiles coyly, “small stuff in comparison, really.”

Beth shrugs, continues counting, Moves onto the next shelf. Something in his words don’t sit right, like maybe he thinks like the others, that she’s some kind of miracle girl, some kind of beacon of hope.

She’s not, though. She’s a girl that got lucky. A lucky shot, with all the angles and trajectories in _her_ favour.

Sure, she survived. But it’s not like she really had a choice in the matter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Maggie saw me writing in you the other day and she got this really hopeful look in her eyes, like maybe one day I’ll be prison Beth again. Not farm Beth, because she wasn’t of any use to anyone. And not winter Beth, because all she did was cry into her daddy’s shoulder._

_Prison Beth. Like she was tougher than the rest, or something._

_She was docile. She was weak._

_She was easier to love._

Her heart sunk when they told her Noah had died. Didn’t tell her how, or where, or when, but Glenn’s broken expression was enough.

It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t quiet and poignant, like Bob. It wasn’t fast, like her daddy. It was the kind of horror that haunts her dreams when she thinks of Zach, in that supermarket, never making it out.

Morgan tells her quietly _that’s how it goes_. A reminder for himself, she thinks, not her, because she’s been telling him that from day one, when she found him, taking out every walker in sight. Nearly taking out her.

She remembers screaming at him _I’m alive!_ Just like she remembers closing her eyes and falling to her knees. Just like she remembers the rain, so heavy, so sharp against her skin. 

It was the first time she had breathed since Grady. It was the first time she truly felt free.

He didn’t kill her then. Didn’t kill her in the days that would follow, even when he would wake up disorientated, holding his knife to her throat. He helped her when her mind would fail her, and in turn, she put him back together as best she could. 

Broken things mending broken things. Double negatives equalling a positive.

 

_We are alive and we must keep living._

These are things she tells Morgan. These are things Morgan tells her. She saved him and he saved her and they saved themselves.

“I know,” she sighs, “just can’t help but think-”

“No.”

Morgan’s words and firm, final. Because they’ve both been prisoners, physically and mentally and they know that they’d rather be dead and free, than trapped, but alive.

She knows Noah would have taken his chances out here rather than spend a second longer in Grady. 

So she says a quick prayer that night, as she stares up at the stars. Whispers to the sky his name, adding it to the list of those she’s loved and lost. Those she’ll remember.

Gone but not forgotten. It’s all they can do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Deanna has asked me to see her tomorrow._

_Or so Eric told me. He was trying to hide it, but he looked worried. And Aaron made a joke, but he looked worried too._

_I hope I didn’t get them in trouble._

“You’re not in trouble, Beth.”

This should put her at ease, but it does the complete opposite. She sits in the chair straighter, trying to look anywhere but at the lens of the video camera.

“Why do I feel like I am?” 

“I lose track of people sometimes,” Deanna ignores her question, “running this community, it’s a full time job. Sometimes things fall to the wayside. I imagine you’re the type of girl that people wouldn’t have paid much mind to, before?”

_Before what?_

“We all have jobs to do,” she recites, because what else can she really say?

“I appreciate you helping Eric,” Deanna continues, “even though it was unassigned, you showed initiative, and I like to reward that.” 

“I don’t want anything-” 

“We need someone to help out with the younger children in the classroom.”

Of course. _Of course_. Beth can feel her nails digging into the palms of her hands, not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to leave little crescent indents.

“The woman who works as a nurse, she’s requested a transfer. I understand you worked at a hospital?”

Beth barks a laugh. She wonders where this woman got her information. She certainly didn’t _work_ there, in the traditional sense. _Indentured_ comes to mind when she thinks of her time there. _Living nightmare_ is another.

“I can’t have you working with Eric,” she frowns at her response, “it’s not a two person job. I also can’t send you beyond the walls-”

“Why not?” Beth interrupts, “Why can’t I go on runs? Or find people with Aaron?” 

“Because,” Deanna explains calmly, “several people have requested I assign you an… _internal_ position.” 

“Who has?” Beth demands, “Maggie? Daryl?” 

“Yes,” Deanna answers simply, “also Rick, Glenn, Carol…”

“So basically my whole family,” Beth surmises with a sigh.

“Is that a bad thing?” Deanna tilts her head, looking at her quizzically, “To have so many people want to keep you safe that they came to _me_ personally?”

Yes. No. To be selfish or to be gracious? That seems to be the question these days, the internal tug of war that has her one moment screaming at Maggie and the other screaming into her pillow.

“Fine,” she murmurs, “I’ll do it.”

“We don’t have a doctor at the moment,” Deanna tells her, “so it will just be you.”

Even better. 

“That’s okay,” Beth forces a smile, “I know the basics.” 

Deanna seems pleased with her answer.

Beth’s starting to realise that things were simpler beyond the walls. There are different kinds of prisons, just as there are different freedoms.

And maybe she’s always going to be trapped, in one form or another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Carl told me that Rick killed the old doctor. That he stole Michonne’s sword and killed Deanna’s husband and that was his punishment. An eye for an eye._

_Maybe this place isn’t so different. To the prison, to the farm. To Grady. To the wild. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Thou shalt not kill._

_The fundamentals of science. The fundamentals of faith._

_Walls and government. Maybe that’s all that separates us from those on the other side._

 

 

Judith is walking and talking and time, Beth realises, moves forward. With or without her. 

She tells this to Daryl, at the clinic, Judith babbling quietly in her travel cot as blood gushes from a cut in his hand.

He’s not her first patient, but he’s her most frequent one. So many cuts, so many scrapes, and she stitches him up with the utmost of care. 

(There’s a metaphor somewhere there, heavy and tangible. But it’s too early for that. Too soon to be analysing and interpreting a relationship that’s barely begun.)

“Would rather it be with ya,” he mutters, not even flinching as the needle pierces his skin, “didn’t so much like it before.”

_Before_. Dead, missing, pick one, any one. Ask Eric and he’ll describe the two Daryls he knows: Before Beth and After Beth. And how After Beth Daryl is much more favourable. 

“Judy’s the same,” she muses, “a bit quieter, but I suppose she learnt how to, on the road. Babies are perceptive like that.” 

“Tyreese got her out,” Daryl tells her, but she already knew this, had heard from Carol back in the hospital, during one their brief, whispered conversations.

“I thought about her a lot,” Beth whispers, “at Grady. Thought about everyone, but her mostly. And you.” 

It’s a quiet confession, but that doesn’t make it any less true. And when his hand curls around hers, squeezing tightly even though it probably hurts like a bitch, she knows he thought about her too. 

“Missed you so damn much when you were gone, Beth,” he says softly, peeking up at her through his too long hair, “you have no idea.”

She does though. When he looks at her the way he does, how can she not?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Daryl looks at me sometime like I’m not real, like I can’t be real, and sometimes it even has me thinking that maybe this_ isn’t _real._

_That any minute now I’m going to wake up and it’s all a dream and I’m still_ there _, lying in that bed._

_These are my realities, my totems; the smell of baby powder, the rough strings of Eric’s guitar, the roar of Daryl’s bike._

_I’m alive. I am here._

Eric’s taste in music reminds her a lot of Shawn.

Sometimes she thinks about Shawn. Thinks that maybe, if they had known _more_ he would still be alive. She loves her brother, misses him so bad it hurts sometimes. He was strong and brave, did things because they were _right_ , not because they were easy or expected. He was a good person. 

But good people don’t survive in this new world. Not really. Not as they were. 

They adapt. They change. They _evolve_.

She has. She _is_.

Eric’s music is the angst heavy indie rock that Shawn used to blast from his crackly record player. 

She finishes work early. Finds herself lying on the living room floor, volume far louder than what it probably should be. Arms stretched above her head, hair fanned around her. 

“Hey, B!” 

Standing above her is Aaron, a wry smile on his face, back from scouting. Daryl stands beside him, crossbow over his shoulder, looking anywhere but at her. 

She sits up quickly, relishing the head spin. Catching her reflection in the television, her hair is thoroughly mussed, straps of her dress falling off her shoulders, hem sitting high on her thighs. 

“Hi,” she straightens herself, turning down the music.

“Did the bullet affect your hearing,” Aaron teases and Beth shrugs, smiling.

“Something like that.” 

“How on earth you put up with her sass, Daryl, is beyond me,” Aaron grins, “You guys want a drink?” 

She nods and Daryl grunts. 

“Use your words.”

“Yes please,” they mutter in unison, and Aaron shakes his head, walking out of the room, muttering to himself.

“You okay?” he asks, allowing his crossbow to fall to his side. 

Beth nods. 

“Today is a good day.”

“Good,” he replies, awkwardly, “I’m glad.” 

“Are you okay?” 

Like the time in her cell, a lifetime ago (literally), her question catches him off guard. He squints at her, a look of confusion sweeping across his features. 

“You’re alive, Beth,” he states simply, “everyday is a good day.” 

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

He says it like it’s a universal truth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

~~_I think this is getting easier._ ~~

_I lied._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes up screaming. She wakes up screaming and she can’t stop. 

She’s not thinking about the fact that it’s the middle of the night. She’s not thinking about the fact that lights are turning on, that animals are barking, that the walkers outside the fences will be drawn to them like a siren’s song.

She’s not thinking at all. 

Except that she needs to get out. And she’ll kill anyone who gets in her way.

Rick’s got his gun trained on her. She’ll realise this later, when she’s calm, when she remembers. But in this moment, he acts like a cop and he looks like a cop and he’s standing between her and freedom. 

“Beth,” Michonne’s voice is calm, even, “you need to put the knife down.” 

“Let me go!” she shrieks, “I need to leave. I can’t stay here!” 

“Beth, please calm down!” Maggie is sobbing, pleading, but she can’t hear her, doesn’t recognise her. 

She whirls around, staring at everyone slowly encircling her. They have her cornered.

So she turns the knife on herself.

“I’ll do it,” she yells, blade pressed against her throat, “I’ll do it, just like Joan!” 

“Beth,” Carol asks her gently, “who do you think we are? Where do you think you are?” 

“I’m not going to let you touch me,” she cries, “I’m not going to be your prisoner!” 

“Rick!” Daryl yells, “Put down your fucking gun!” 

He does. Slowly, he flicks the safety on, holsters it and takes a step back. They all do, save Daryl, who slowly moves forward. 

“You ain’t at Grady, Beth,” he tells her quietly, “they ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“You’re lying,” she angles the knife, pressing it against her neck, “you’re dead. You’re not real.”

“I’m real, girl,” Daryl approaches her carefully, “as real as that knife you’re holding.”

“Dawn said-” 

“Dawn’s dead,” Daryl interrupts, “I killed her. She’s gone.” 

“Where,” she squeezes her eyes shut, “where am I?” 

“Alexandria Safe Zone,” he’s a few feet away from her now, “this ain’t a dream, Beth. No one’s gonna hurt you, except you if you don’t put down the knife.” 

The blade falls from her hands, landing softly on the grass. And then she’s falling. 

Except he catches her. 

“I got you, girl,” he murmurs, “I got you and I ain’t letting you go.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_So having a mental breakdown equates to a week off work duty. Maggie had to talk to Deanna about it. I’m pretty sure she wants me out of the community. I make people nervous. I’m a danger to myself and others._

_I’m a liability._

_Eric and Aaron didn’t kick me out, but Daryl’s pretty much living here now. He sleeps on the couch most nights, and those he doesn’t, he falls asleep outside my door._

_I don’t know who he’s trying to protect me from, the nightmares or myself?_

_Both are one in the same, I guess_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re sister is worried about you.” 

She glances up, startled. She’s most distracted when she’s around Judith, her attention so focused on the small child, that she loses track of her surroundings. 

Anywhere else, and it would be dangerous.

Deanna sits beside her on the porch, and Judith quietens, looking at the other woman curiously. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Maggie,” Deanna repeats herself, “she’s concerned. You won’t talk to her.” 

“No offence,” Beth shrugs, “but I don’t really talk to anyone.” 

“You talk to Daryl,” she corrects, “Morgan, Eric, Aaron-” 

“That’s different,” she sighs. 

“How?” 

“They don’t pity me.”

“And Maggie does?”

“Yeah,” Beth holds her finger out to Judith, who takes it happily, pulling it into her mouth, “every time she looks at me, asks me about what happened, I see every possible horrific scenario running through her mind. She sees me as a victim. They see me as a survivor.”

“She loves you.”

“And I love her,” Beth smiles sadly, “so much. Nothing can change that. But I’m not ready to talk to her. Maybe one day, but not now.”

Deanna nods, taking in this information. Nodding quietly, she runs a hand softly across Judith’s head.

“You’re a remarkable girl,” she comments, “as is this little one here." 

“She reminds me that I’m allowed to be happy,” Beth says quietly, “that I _can_ be happy.” 

That she _wants_ to be happy. That she should _strive_ to be happy. 

Everyday, for the rest of her life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Today Daryl took me outside the walls on his bike._

_My legs felt like jelly when I got off. Nearly fell, but Daryl caught me. It was so freeing, being on the bike. I get why he loves it so much._

_We killed some walkers and found a peach tree with the last of the seasons pickings. Filled my backpack. Can’t wait to give one to Judy._

_Today was a good day._

He’s in her bathroom, brushing his teeth. Because he lives here now, basically. His stuff is here. His crossbow. His bike. 

So, I guess it’s _their_ bathroom. That they share. 

Which feels like the most normal thing in the world. 

“Thank you,” she says, from the doorway, in her sleep shorts and tank top, “for today.” 

He spits out the toothpaste, wiping his face on a towel. 

“Wasn’t nothin’.”

“I needed it,” she smiles, “you _knew_ I needed it.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “ain’t good to be out of practice.” 

He makes his way past her, and she stops him with a hand on his bicep.

“You don’t have to sleep outside my door, you know.” 

Daryl grunts. 

“I don’t mind.”

“I just mean,” she struggles for the words, “it’s a big bed. We’ve shared smaller spaces. You could stay with me.”

“Beth…”

“You don’t have to,” she says quickly, “I’m sorry I brought it up.” 

“It’s alright.”

She goes to bed alone. Leaves him to the armchair outside her door. It’s later, much later, when she finds herself awake, with an added weight easing down onto the mattress. The familiar smell of cigarettes, engine oil, and mint fills her senses and she doesn’t even stir, just closes her eyes and pretends she’s still asleep. 

The covers rustle quietly and he slips beneath them. Rolls onto his side, his fingers hesitantly brushing through her hair. 

“I know you’re awake,” his voice rumbles in the dark.

She doesn’t turn around. 

“I know,” she breathes, “but why don’t we pretend I’m not?” 

He grabs her around the waist, dragging her close. Presses a kiss to the back of her neck. 

“Night, girl.”

“Night.” 

His arms tighten around her. For the first time in a long time, she sleeps through the entire night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_  

_Somehow, Daryl’s touch keeps the nightmares at bay._

_It’s cheesy, but that doesn’t make it any less true._

_We’re not sure what this is, not yet. We told Maggie and our family that we’re working it out. He doesn’t want this to be a secret._

_Daryl doesn’t like secrets._

_I’m trying not to keep any from him._

It’s her birthday. She knows this because they have calendars now.

It’s still a little overwhelming. 

She doesn’t make a big deal of it, insists on it, in fact. Eric bakes her a bake and Aaron gives her his guitar. 

“Let’s face it, B, I’m never going to learn.”

It falls on a Tuesday, so it’s kind of perfect. And she invites Glenn and Maggie and Morgan, and later, the rest of their family joins them, moving the chairs outside, sitting around the fire pit.

“So what’s it like to be twenty?” Eric teases her, as she sits between Daryl’s legs, face illuminated by the firelight. 

“Great,” she retorts, “no wrinkles, perfect metabolism. I can drink and not have a hangover.” 

“You suck!” Aaron calls out, chuckling. 

“Jealous much?” Maggie smirks and this is kind of perfect. This unconventional birthday, her unconventional family. Laughing and joking and it’s easy to pretend, for a night, that the world outside the gates doesn’t exist. That this is any other night, on any other day. And she’s just any other girl. 

Not Beth Greene, the girl who lived. 

She’s not a young adult novel heroine. 

She’s just… _lucky_.

And sitting there, with friends turned family, with a baby turned surrogate daughter, with a reluctant travelling companion turned someone she's slowly falling in love with, she’s feels just that.

And she’ll never take it for granted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_Life’s not easy, but it’s getting better. I’m getting better. I’m_ trying _to be better._

_And that’s all that matters._


End file.
